The days were beginning to blur.
No reinforcements.
No gunshots.
Just hunger, cold air, and two boys too young to be here, too old to pretend they weren't.
---
Tae-Jun no longer counted hours.
But he still wrote.
His notebook was worn, dirt-smeared, edges curled like it was growing old with him.
> Entry Seven.
He hasn't spoken once. Not a word. Not even a name.
But today… something shifted.
It wasn't in what he said.
It was in what he did.
---
The moment came quietly.
Tae-Jun was trying to sharpen a stick — not for defense, but to pass time, keep his fingers moving. His hands were too weak, trembling. The knife slipped.
A shallow cut opened on his palm.
He cursed, flinched, dropped the stick.
The boy heard it.
Looked over.
Stood.
Tae-Jun held up a hand, warning. "I'm fine."
But the boy ignored him.
He crossed the thirty-step line without hesitation.
Kneeled.
Took Tae-Jun's hand gently.
And began to clean the cut with a cloth soaked in water.
His hands were warm.
Rough, but careful.
Not a soldier's hands.
Not really.
Hands that had touched something before this war.
Maybe a sibling. A friend. A notebook of his own.
Tae-Jun didn't pull away.
He watched the boy.
Watched the way he worked in silence, like this wasn't strange — like this was normal.
Like they weren't enemies at all.
---
When it was done, the boy tied the cloth around Tae-Jun's hand and stood.
He pointed at his own chest.
Then tapped his heart twice.
Slow.
> "Yul."
Tae-Jun blinked.
A name.
His name.
---
He didn't reply right away.
He swallowed. Then touched his own chest.
> "Tae-Jun."
A beat passed between them.
Then — a nod.
No handshake. No smile.
But something had changed.
---
> Entry Seven, continued.
His name is Yul.
I don't know what it means. But I know how it felt.
Like a thread was tied between us.
Small. Fragile. But real.
The enemy has a name now.
And so do I.